Davey Should Be More Like His Brother

Responsible. Hardworking. Davey should not steal.

It’s his neighbor’s jeep. He slips it out of gear and pushes it down the hill till it fires up. He jumps in, gives it gas and there, he’s got it going. He’s got this. He’s watched Father drive a hundred times, the measured lift on the clutch as he presses on the gas with the other foot.

He is careful as he maneuvers the jeep onto the desert around the saguaros. Just a quick drive. He’s seen the older kids do it here, using the cacti like cones in a race, hairpin turns and spinning out.

It’s the last day of summer vacation. Soon he will be mired in seventh-grade English assignments and history reports. Things Edward has no problem with. But brother Edward does not know how to drive and he, Davey, is killing it. He clutches and shifts into third, rolling back onto the street. He likes how the jeep is responsive to his steering. He downshifts into second and climbs the rise toward his house. Plan is to put the jeep back in the neighbor’s drive. Plan is to come into the house where Mother is making tamale pie and grab an olive, let her fuss at him. Plan is no harm no foul.

Olives and chiles and cheese.

But the jeep stalls as he works it up the small hill, right in front of his house. It begins to slide back. If it crashes into that parked car, he’ll be in hot water ’til cows come home.

All he can do is pull up the emergency brake right there in front of his house. Mother is waiting outside the house when he walks up, hands on hips, mother-style. Maybe this was also his plan, confirm for her what she already knows about him.

 

Gravity & Departure

Priorities shift after a child is hurt. One moment a father is trimming the damn bougainvillea and the next he is looking for the tweezers. One moment he is studying Contracts or Criminal Law, the next he is bandaging a wounded hand. One moment he is paying the bills, the next he is driving a child to Emergency.

On a Saturday in summer, he is not working. His tight chest warns him that he may not pass the bar exam. He should not be here in the backyard with his family, he should be studying, memorizing. But they have called him from his books. “Look at me, Daddy.” “Come see, Dave.” His two children have fingerpainted blue and red swirls, made small handprints that mark their presence in the moment, in this family. “Here I am,” the hands say. A swing rocks gently under the old avocado tree. His little boy has just left it and gone to snuggle with his wife, belly-swollen, awaiting the new arrival who has yet to place hands on the family painting.

His daughter in the kiddie pool lies in three careful inches of water. He’s heard of children drowning and that, by God, is not going to happen to one of his. She laughs and splashes and something in him (that part of him that thinks various things are good ideas) says run at the pool and jump over her. She will like that.

Maybe he does it once and she says, “More Daddy, do it again.”  Probably his wife says, “Careful, Dave. Don’t fall.” Or maybe she was still in the friendly phase and says, “Please don’t.”

There are moments that he’s always wanted to unravel, to do over. He could have kneeled next to his daughter, splashed her a little and told her a story about water gremlins who live in pools and come out to tickle little girls. She would have giggled and forgotten about the jumping. His wife would not have turned unfriendly, this grievance toppling the list of grievances.

The grass by the pool is slippery. Once he is in the air his only option is to obey the laws of gravity: all two hundred pounds of him crash down on four-year-old ribs.

The kitchen is cold as he sits her on the counter, begging her to breathe, holding her, patting her. He cannot catch the words his wife throws at him; they break apart and disappear in the whir around him. The ambulance crawls through time. His little boy crouches on the floor, ignored in the drama of the accident.

 

His daughter, recovering in the hospital, never blames him. But his wife does. She will have his third child on her own.

He looks back at his house as he drives away with his clothes in paper bags. His daughter watches him from the window, waves goodbye, and then presses her hand against the glass.

Maybe she will not remember the accident.

Away from his family, he has time now to study Civil Procedure and Real Property. Family Law. He might pass the bar.

In the backyard of his former house, the red and blue handprints of his children fade in the summer sun.